Wednesday, February 8
Lettuce that had long since liquefied in the cellophane bag, a cucumber turned to mush, and soft apples perfect for applesauce—this was the state of the produce in Angelica’s refrigerator.
She shouldn’t have been surprised after extending her two-week overseas trip to three weeks, then four. How about five? After so many flights, she grew bewildered about which city or country she had just landed in. The languages spoken gave her a clue.
Angelica had plenty to see while on the run.
Lots to explore and countless places to visit as she searched for herself.
Without the calendar or lack of money holding her back, she swiped her way across the green grass, if it weren’t covered with frost, of the British Isles and the European continent.
Why not? She always had carte blanche with Nicholas’s companion credit cards.
As her life took a different turn, she felt justified in charging to the hilt.
She sent two texts before leaving home. That seemed sufficient. Nicholas was no doubt waiting for her to come back quickly and to him. Angelica did neither—come back quickly nor come back to him.
She met wonderful people at the hotel bars (soda only, doctor’s orders) in the evenings, people with fascinating tales to tell.
Nothing could compare to her own story, but she never shared it.
Not wanting sympathy or to be gossiped about on social media, she told fellow travelers she needed space after breaking up with her fiancé.
Angelica’s “so-called” situation prompted remarks like, “Oh, that’s sad.
I feel so sorry for you ... You’re better off without him ...
You dodged a bullet and a pricey divorce, for sure …
Men are worthless ... Don’t waste any more time.
There are loads of guys here ... You’re so sweet, he didn’t deserve you … ”
She concurred with a few of those observations.
What reactions would she have heard if she told them the truth? Especially about her husband, (a strange word for Angelica), the handsome, multi-millionaire or billionaire, whatever, business tycoon.
Yet the foreign soil, crisp air, and fine cuisine didn’t heal her grieving, battered soul.
To boot, the sleep-thief leaped through hoops, swam the sea, and traveled as a stowaway to follow her, overturning her pillow in four- and five-star hotels.
She can’t wait to see Dr. Tenny again on Friday. Her emotions need a fix.
Even though her weary feet had covered a lot of ground and seen endless sights, when she boarded the plane for her flight home yesterday and settled into her first-class seat (Nicholas would have a cow when he received the credit card bill for that.
Good!), she was still a muddled mess, still the woman in her bridal gown.
But Angelica didn’t know whether she wanted to be Mrs. Ponte, stepping back in time, or whether being Ms. Whitely, the artist she had become after venturing out on her own, was even possible.
Angelica wished she had never gone to his condo after the baby shower. Wished she could relive New Year’s Day. Wished she had never gone into Nicholas’s bedroom. Wished she hadn’t been so nosy and snooped in the safe. Wished she hadn’t learned what she did. Would life be better?
Unfortunately, life doesn’t offer “do-overs.” It is what it is. Things will never be the same again. They can never be better. How could they be? Now she’s living in the “blank.”
Blanks aren’t associated with vitality or serenity.
They’re simply empty white squares—just a little box on the form to fill in.
But someone else had already filled in hers without asking for her consent or opinion.
She felt as if she’d been pushed out of a plane above the white box, without a parachute.
It was a crash landing, and she suffered a fatal wound to her heart.
As Angelica watched the clouds drift by from her private window seat yesterday, wishing her life were as light and unburdened as the wispy clouds, she scolded herself for her own stupidity.
Nicholas slipped when he said, “You shouldn’t be dating at all. You know that.” No, she didn’t know that because he hadn’t told her the reason. If there ever were a moment to tell her, that was the perfect time!
Then there were the many times he asked her to “Come home.” Only now did she grasp the full weight of those simple words.
How about, “Bring a couple of cocktail dresses.” Of course, he knew evening clothes were in her closet. She’d worn them all before in his presence, as his “wife.” Angelica sighed, teardrops clinging to the tips of her eyelashes.
And to think she assumed all along that his generous financial support was restitution—their “understanding”—for his past “mistake.”
On top of that, there was her mother. She almost had it written in the sky by a skywriting plane. She dropped clues everywhere—Angelica should have had a more attentive ear and listened.
“I understand you wanted your space after the accident, but it’s time you got back together and settled down ... Nicky misses you … You must realize how lucky you are to have a man who adores you the way he does ... The women bring their spouses… to the baby showers.”
Idiot! Angelica had always thought her mother was a rambling matchmaker.
Now facing food unfit for consumption—a moldy, green block of cheese—she shook her head. The irony of life. She’s finally back home, but Daisy didn’t want to return home. No, the cat didn’t say so in so many words.
Daisy, along with Leah’s kids, was having a blast, frolicking nonstop throughout the spacious two-story house.
Angelica agreed to let her fair-weather friend stay a few more days.
Maybe she should get another kitty to keep Daisy company?
She didn’t have unlimited hours to devote to her pet while working full-time.
Before heading to the supermarket to restock, she planned to stop at the hobby and craft store. It was time to take her talent seriously now that it was being noticed and appreciated. No, it had been ages ago, if she gave credence to Garrett’s comments. Garrett. She shook her head.
Her editor, Elana Applegate, from Henry and Fooster, emailed her to say she’d slayed the illustrations when they arrived on her desk in January.
Then, of all things, Edgar Fooster personally reached out to her when the publishing company reopened this morning.
Was Angelica interested in doing more work with their publishing house?
Had she ever been to Paris? Rome? London?
The author of the book she illustrated wanted to create a series of vacation stories featuring the character Belle set in historical European cities.
Who knew her trip would enhance her career?
She couldn’t pass up this opportunity. They scheduled a video call for Friday to discuss the details.
She did it! All by herself. Her dream of a career as an artist has come true.
Well, as long as she keeps working with the publisher.
But she didn’t intend to view this as a lifelong job.
It could be temporary or a short run, but it boosted her confidence.
Her backup plan was to try her hand at landscapes.
Hopefully, she can sell them in the capital and at local galleries and gift shops.
Find a niche. These days, there’s a market for everything original.
When she gets home from grocery shopping and picking up art supplies, she’ll call her mother to update her on her life. Angelica also has other calls to make; she’ll make them when she finds the courage.
What would she say, anyway? “I’m sorry I ran away.”
Somehow, those words didn’t seem good enough. No words felt adequate. Would she even find the right words to express her feelings? The words she needed to say. The words she had failed to say a while ago.